In a single moment everything, everything that I knew changed.
I raged, wept and futilely tried to put the pieces together.
I do not remember the moment I realized that my hands where cut and my blood dulled the once bright edges.
I put the shards down and backed away.
From a distance I could see the irrevocable change
But my hands still reached out.
Sheer force of will and the desire to heal stayed them time and time again.
Now a few scares stretch as my hands move once more towards the pieces.
Instead of seeking to replicate what once was, they nimbly dust and wash each;
Looking for the qualities that only it contains: a color, a shape or curvature.
Carefully I lay them out in the mud of this new life.
I am unsure how one piece will sit next to another: if the edges will combine to please the eye,
If the colors still compliment in this erratic new state.
But as each piece finds its place I see the whole better, I trust the wisdom of my hands.
It is not the piece I set out to make, not in its function or form
But it is stronger and more beautiful for the breaking.